Basil and the Londoners
by The Grey Piper
Summary: Lighthearted romp at Fawlty Towers as Basil and Sybil entertain one very unusual family! Suitable for all.


Basil and the Londoners

I

'Basil!' Sybil Fawlty's bright voice lilted through morning air. A bluebird chirping in the rear garden was her only answer, but the birdsong wafting in through the window of the saloon bar seemed to irritate her. She strode in that direction, as if thinking the bluebird were in fact some variety of stool pigeon which would betray her husband's whereabouts.

'Basil!' Sybil's voice rang sharply in the empty bar of Fawlty Towers, an up-and-coming Torquay resort hotel. The bluebird repeated its warble, as if to tweak Sybil's ire. Sybil stepped over to the open window, picking up a handful of stale popcorn from a snack bowl on the bar. She tossed the popcorn in the direction of the cherry tree, and watched silently as the bluebird fluttered down to sample it. 'There you go, noisy thing,' she whispered. 'Now where did you say Basil got himself off to?'

The bluebird glanced up, twittered non-committaly, and focused its attention on the popcorn. Sybil leaned out the window, enjoyed the feel of the summer sun on her face. Stretching, she could see the steps down into the cellar, and the cellar door open. Must be down there, she thought. 'Basil!' she called, her lilting voice now piercing, splitting air like a scimitar. She heard the vague sound of a tall, awkward man stumbling in the dark, a muffled curse, and finally the form of Basil Fawlty himself, emerging into the light and up the steps, one hand held against a scuff-mark on his forehead.

'Well? Yes?' Basil regarded his wife with mild annoyance.

'What were you doing down there, Basil?'

Basil cocked an eye at her. Her tone of voice suggested that he may have been tending an illicit still. 'Working, my love,' he replied. 'You know, that thing I do that isn't the five hours a night I sleep. What are you doing?'

'Fretting over you and the hotel. You know we're expecting guests this afternoon.'

'Yes, dear, that's why I'm down here.'

'Hiding?'

Basil rolled his eyes. 'Checking the gas lines and burners, dear.'

'It's summer, Basil, we won't be needing the heat.'

'The water heater, Sybil. Five guests, three rooms, two with bath. They may be planning on bathing, since they're paying for it. Last weekend a few guests were complaining about not enough hot water, so I'm just making sure of the burner.'

Sybil regarded him critically. 'You're making an awful mess of yourself. Be sure to clean up before they arrive. They are driving down from London for us.'

'Bloody toffs.'

'Basil, why do you have to be so? Always, always. If the guests aren't riff-raff, they're toffs or snobs.'

'Got it in one, Sybil. Damn few decent people left in this country.'

Sybil paused a moment, remembering her purpose. This afternoon's guests, the Browns, had phoned up, with a rather odd question. 'Do you have a good bit of marmalade on hand? I only ask because . . . well, we tend to go through quite a bit of it, and on holiday I expect even more so, and we wouldn't want to inconvenience you by eating you out of it.' Sybil had re-assured them, and now, she decided not to trouble Basil with it. It was exactly the sort of eccentric request likely to set him off on one of his tears. She'd pop into town herself later on and pick up a few extra jars, or send Elsie, the chambermaid and all-rounder, to do it. Good lord, she thought, how much marmalade could two adults and three children eat in a weekend?

The day passed uneventfully: two guests checked out, three checked in. Three more remained. Manuel, the waiter in training, had served lunch without spilling anything hot on anyone. Elsie double-checked all the rooms, especially the three rooms reserved for the Browns, then rode her motor scooter into the town, dropped off a couple of special orders for the greengrocer and butcher, and bought four jars of a local speciality marmalade before heading back.

It was early afternoon -- Sybil was taking her turn at tending bar, and Basil was ensconced behind the front counter. He was pleased at the smells drifting out through the dining room; the new chef seemed to be working out well. This autumn would be two full years of the hotel, four of marriage to Sybil. Both had had their ups and downs, but all in all, everything seemed to be on the uptick. Basil Fawlty smiled serenely.

The sound of a car pulling up outside interrupted his reverie. Impatiently, he hammered away at the bell on the counter. 'Manuel!' The waiter in training was also the de facto bellhop. Manuel's English was sketchy, but seemed to be improving. Probably be fluent in a year or two, if he stayed. In the meantime -- 'Manuel!'

Manuel popped out of the dining room. '_Si, _Mista Fawlty, I very sorry, I very busy making tables for the _comida,_ the dinner --'

'I know what you were doing, Manuel, I told you to do it earlier.'

'_Que?_'

'I know -- never mind. Guests are coming in, in a moment. Carry bags, _por favor._'

'Where bags?'

'Still outside. Guest outside. Wait until come in.'

Manuel stood frowning, lips working, sorting through Basil's terse comments. 'Ah, _si si._' He turned and darted back toward the dining room.

'Manuel, no! Wait here!'

Manuel smiled broadly. '_Si, si, _I waiteer!'

Basil looked pained. 'Manuel, _aqui_! _Stando stillo_!'

Footsteps sounded on the landing, and a middle-ish aged man stood in the foyer of Fawlty Towers. Understanding dawned on Manuel's face. 'Ahh, get him bags! _Pardon, _Mista Fawlty!' He looked around. 'Where bags?'

'Outside, Manuel. Go. _Vaya._' Basil turned to the man, and smiled effusively. 'Good afternoon, sir. By any chance are you Mr Brown of London?'

'Yes, Henry Brown. Is your man there fetching bags?'

'With any luck. Party of five, is it?'

'That's right. It'll be myself and Mrs Brown --'

He stopped at a bit more commotion in the doorway. Manuel stood there, one shoulder propped against the doorframe, hanging on to more suitcases than seemed humanly possible. He drew a few heavy breaths, then called over his shoulder -- as far as was possible, with one shoulder supporting him, as just noted, and the other shoulder supporting luggage, also as just noted. 'Yes please very much, this-a way, follow you me, please.'

'Upstairs with it, Manuel. Rooms 31, 33, and 37.' Manuel staggered off up the stairs, and Basil turned to Mr Brown, again flashing his Sunday-best smile. 'And if you would be so good as to sign the register . . . .'

'Certainly.'

Still smiling, Basil purred, 'And this will be Mrs Brown, I'm sure.'

Mrs Brown -- for it was indeed she -- paid back his smile, with dazzling interest. 'You are surely correct. And as charming as clever.'

Well, thought Basil, there are some decent people left after all. Certainly not riff-raff, and just posh enough, without being upper-class boors or twits. Basil instantly deduced that Mr Brown could be a solicitor, at least, or even a barrister. Possibly a banker! His infallible instinct told him Mr Brown was no industrialist or puffed-up shopkeeper: that sort of _nouveau-riche_ didn't have the subtle -- what was it? oh yes -- _je ne sai quoi_ that the Browns radiated. His smile wilted just a touch at the corners as the first of the children entered.

'Mr Fawlty, this is our daughter Judy.'

Judy smiled awkwardly, may have even blushed, and murmured, "Good afternoon.'

A reasonably well-kempt boy followed her in. He was carrying a suitcase, battered and scuffed, that looked as if it had been around the world and back again. In fact, it had. A steamship sticker bearing the legend 'Wanted on voyage' bore witness to its travel.

'Come along Jonathan,' Mr Brown encouraged, only slightly impatient. A brief cloud of worry hovered over his brow for just a moment. 'Where is --'

'He's coming, Dad.'

'Right, you get him in and settled, and I'll go park the car in a better spot than right in front of Mr Fawlty's steps.'

Basil Fawlty looked apprehensively at the shadowy figure working its way up the stairs. He -- he? -- stood on the doorstep, catching his breath. A somewhat shabby blue duffel coat hung nearly to the ground, and a shapeless hat fell down over this extra-ordinary person's eyes. Rather overdressed for the weather, thought Basil. Basil looked closer, and horrified, fascinated, comprehension dawned. The thing on the doorstep was a -- was a --

'Let's head on upstairs, Paddington,' said Jonathan. 'Say hello to Mr Fawlty, Paddington.'

'Good afternoon, Mr Fawlty,' said Paddington, doffing his hat politely. 'A pleasure to be in Torquay.'

Basil stared openly. The hat-doffing expelled any remaining doubt. The long, furry nose, the high, round black ears, the furry paw that raised the hat. This creature that Jonathan called 'Paddington' was a bear. His horrified gaze followed the boy and the bear as they disappeared up the steps. He felt almost betrayed. A bear in my hotel. A _bear _in _my _hotel! Cockney rubbish after all, he thought.

Presently, Sybil closed the bar and sat at the front desk with her husband. He was still fuming. 'Unbelievable,' Basil growled. 'Just unbelievable. A bear, Sybil, did you see it?'

'Really, Basil, he seemed like a quite well-behaved bear, if you ask me. Not that you did.'

'But what about the other guests? What will they think? Those Browns aren't the only ones here, you know, I have to look out for the comfort of all the guests.'

Sybil arched an eyebrow at Basil, and carelessly lit a cigarette. 'First time in quite a while I've heard you express any concern for the guests at all, Basil. Honestly, you treat them more and more as if they were an inconvenience to your day.'

'That's unnecessary and irrelevant, Sybil. All I can say is that they'd better not think for one minute that that bear is going to eat dinner in our dining room.'

During their conversation, Basil had gradually turned in his chair to talk to Sybil, and by the time he uttered the last sentence, his back was completely turned to the stairs and dining room. Thus, Manuel's sudden announcement took him completely by surprise.

'Please, please, Mista Fawlty. I refuse _absolutamente_ to serve on that table. I am waiter, not stinking Hyde Park Zoo trough attendant!' Manuel struck a heroic pose, arms crossed, head tilted up just slightly, indicative of readiness for martyrdom, if necessary.

Basil didn't need to ask Manuel what he meant. His keen hotel-managerial instinct had forewarned him already. He had drawn a line in the sand of Torquay. And now, there was a bear on the wrong side of that line. He could see it now. Literally. Gazing into the dining room, Basil saw the abomination, and resolutely strode forward toward it. Manuel turned and followed, conscientious of his duties to all the diners at bear-free tables. Basil, arms folded tightly, lips pursed likewise, loomed menacingly over Table Six.

'Is there some problem here . . ._sirs_?'

The question seemed absurd on the face of it. One ordinarily does not find a man and a boy sitting at Table Six of a hotel restaurant whilst a small brown Peruvian bear sits _on_ the table, arduously covering himself and the occasional dinner roll with butter and jam, and find that there is _not_ some problem there.

Mr Brown -- for naturally it was he -- looked up at Basil Fawlty. A look of something like guilt crossed his face for just a moment, but he was a man who had faced far harder inquisitors than Basil Fawlty, under far more trying circumstances, with a bear who was much further up the proverbial creek with no paddle. Hardly missing a stroke of his own butter knife, Mr Brown responded almost casually. 'Ah, good evening Mr Fawlty. No, no, not a problem as such. I certainly don't, nor does Jonathan, we're quite accustomed to Paddington's little eccentricities. Young Master Paddington, however, is having a spot of difficulty with your butter knives. The handles are rather thinner than what he's accustomed to at home, and he is a bit clumsy at best. I'm afraid he's reverted to type, just a whisker, that is -- jolly good joke that is too, what, Fawlty? "Just a whisker."? And him a bear and all . . . covered . . . in . . . whisk . . . ers . . . .' Mr Brown's hearty bravado sputtered and failed, much to his surprise. He was, he realised, being stared down by both Basil Fawlty and Paddington.

'Mr Brown,' said Paddington icily, 'I'm not entirely sure what you imply by the comment about reverting to type, but I distinctly feel that you've insulted me. I would like to see you manage at this tiny table without any cutlery suited for your paws, and not get a few crumbs and smears on your suit.

'And Mr Fawlty, I understand you are the proprietor, but I do not understand why you fail to provide even marginally adequate utensils for a potentially very valuable clientele.' Paddington knew his hotel managers. Shoulder to shoulder with Mr Brown, he had faced down a few: again, as noted above. He knew, too, that he was bluffing heavily with the chip of valuable clientele. As far as he knew, he was the only bear in England who had ever stayed in a hotel at all, probably the only one in all of Britain, and possibly in all of Europe! Of course there was his Aunt Lucy, and the other residents of the Home for Retired Bears in Peru, but not even Aunt Lucy had travelled to England to see him, not yet anyway, and if she ever did, she would probably stay with him at the Brown's. A further split-second consideration decided Paddington to leave the threat of future trade loss hanging as it was, and not press that angle. Paddington arranged his bottom comfortably in the middle of Table Six, and raised the fullness of his cold, hard, stare to Basil Fawlty. 'That, however, is quite apart from my problem with you. As you can see, here I am, a guest in your hotel, and I have been left with inadequate seating and tableware. Really, Mr Fawlty, I would be ashamed of myself if I were in your shoes.'

Paddington reduced his stare intensity to that of a compassionate gaze. Basil's ears were flame-red. Mr Brown held his breath. He had heard of people bursting spontaneously into real flame. He had never seen it, but he had a feeling he might be seeing it very soon. To himself, he conceded that Mr Fawlty might have a valid point. It really was not the best form to have a brown bear, no matter how small or well-behaved, sitting in the middle of a table. Still, Mr Fawlty seemed to be unnecessarily brusque about the situation. No-one spoke at Table Six for what seemed a terribly long time, and a certain tension seemed to hover over the table.

Suddenly Elsie came trotting out of the kitchen. "Excuse me, Mr Fawlty, Mr Brown -- I think we have an accommodation that will satisfy everyone. I am really terribly sorry that we don't have a chair suitable for the young ma-- young _bear, _that is -- so why don't we make a chair and table together on the floor . . . .' Soon, Elsie and Manuel had rearranged the tables so that Five and Six were together, putting all the Browns -- all but Paddington -- together. The four of them were ranged all on the same side of the tables, looking out the windows. Lined up, they screened the rest of the dining room from Paddington, who was spread out on the floor under the window. He had a tabletop from which the legs had broken off (Elsie had known it was in the back garden by the shed): Manuel had spread a tablecloth on it, along with Paddington's dinner. Vince, the cook, brought out a very large wooden spoon and fork, which he used for stirring big kitchen kettles, and a fairly large knife ('Not to worry, sir, that old thing is so dull it could 'ardly cut butter.'). Paddington's dignity soothed, he was able to spread out and enjoy his dinner, without the hazard of putting the other guests off theirs.

Basil had been noticeably absent since Elsie's intervention. Eventually he peered back in to the dining room. Arms still folded, he grudgingly approved of Elsie's solution, though he was still haunted by the thought that he had come off looking foolish. 'Elsie!' he whispered, and beckoned her out to the reception lobby. 'Well done, Elsie. Good thought. Know what else might work for them? Breakfast in their rooms. Be sure to suggest it to them before they're finished. Not before eight o'clock though.'

'Yes, Mr Fawlty.'

'Unless you think you can be in early enough to serve them before that.'

Elsie glared at Basil. 'I see, Mr Fawlty.' Her glare was approaching Paddington-level intensity. 'I solve your problem for you, and my reward is solving another one?'

'Room Service was my idea, Elsie, not yours. That's why I pay you. I tell you to do something, you do it, I give you money.'

'And you tell me to do more and more, and more absurd things all the time, and you never pay me on time, and you haven't given me a rise these two years. I've half a mind to take up my cousin's offer to emigrate to Toronto.'

'Times are tough, Elsie. Really, I'll make it all up to you someday, I promise. Just for God's sake help me keep that bloody bear out of everyone's hair. Right? Right. Good show, straight bat, thanks so much. See you in the morning.' Basil retreated upstairs.

Elsie sighed. 'Yes, Mr Fawlty.' She went back in to the dining room. The Browns were finishing up, and Manuel was starting to clear their table.

'Oh, Miss,' said Mrs Brown. 'Would it be possible to have a bit of tea sent up to our room? And some toast and buns? We'll have afters by ourselves. Yes, I found the marmalade you got for us, looks lovely. Paddington is very fond of it, you know. But we'll get out your way for now, thanks so much.'

'Not at all, Mrs Brown. And -- ' Elsie hesitated. These really were the nicest people, and she wasn't going to insult them by asking them to take breakfast in their room. Hang Mr Fawlty. I do enough of his dirty work, she thought. 'And it looks like lovely weather tomorrow, so if you're planning on going to the seaside, let us call the taxi for you, and you'll get a discount on the fare. It's not that far a walk, but it can be a bit much for children.'

'Or bears. By the way, would it be possible to have breakfast in our rooms in the morning? Maybe nine-ish?'

'Of course, Mrs Brown. I'll slip a breakfast menu under your door later on, and I'll be happy to take your order in the morning.' Thank goodness, she thought, that worked itself out. Maybe they did frequent hotels often, and knew just how far they could take things..

II

Saturday morning in Torquay, the sun rose over a thick overnight fog. The sky was already mostly blue, but the view of the harbour from the windows of Fawlty Towers appeared to be a drab cotton-wool blanket spread over the horizon, with only the higher rooftops visible.

Inside Fawlty Towers, the mood was rather sunnier. After the initial surprise and dismay of having a bear for a guest, Basil Fawlty was a happy man. 'Think of the publicity value, Sybil! A few photos for the papers, and a holiday magazine or two, people will be queuing up just to make reservations to stay at the hotel where the bear stays!'

'You mean "stayed", don't you, Basil?'

Basil's eyes were bright, almost intoxicated with his vision. 'No, no, no. I'll give those Brown people complimentary holidays, free weekends, twice a year, as long as they bring that . . . that Paddington with them. No, four times, once every season! Fawlty Tower's Teddy Bear Christmas! Teddy Bear Picnic at the Seaside! Autumn --'

'Basil, he's not a teddy bear. He's a member of their family, a little odd perhaps, but he's not a toy and he's certainly not your private advertising gimmick.'

Basil Fawlty's eyes were still burning with the avaricious vision. 'It's not like I wouldn't be telling them.'

'Now Basil --'

Their eyes met in a brief contest of wills. Basil changed the subject.

'I've got a man in to fix the kitchen sink, by the way,' he said, while inwardly resolving to speak to the Brown's about his scheme.

'I hope you've found someone competent this time, Basil.'

'I'm sure he's better than that MacCrummon was.'

'He could hardly be worse, could he, Basil? In jail for fraud and racketeering, and half the solicitors in town begging you to let them sue.'

Basil cringed mentally. Why did these conversations always go so wrong? Manfully, he pressed on, and tried to divert the discussion to his prior point. 'Well, live and learn, forgive and forget, my dear. Anyway, O'Reilly's in the kitchen now, working on it. He may not be the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he's as honest as the day is long, and that counts for a lot by me, Sybil.'

'I'd look in on him all the same, Basil, love,' said Sybil. 'Oh, good morning Mr Brown, Mrs Brown,' she continued, as the Brown family trooped downstairs. 'Everything all right with breakfast, was it?'

'Yes, lovely, Mrs Fawlty,' said Mrs Brown.

As Mrs Brown and Mrs Fawlty chatted, Basil ducked through the dining room and into the kitchen. Must speak to O'Reilly about putting a door through out there, he thought.

O'Reilly's short, skinny legs protruded from the cupboard under the sink. There was a faint sound of dripping water, as well another sound -- snoring? Basil felt his temper flare as the sound of O'Reilly's light, regular snoring drifted from under the sink. First, though, the Browns. If he could speak privately to Mr Brown while the wives gossiped . . . .

'Ah, Mr Brown. Going to the seaside today? May I recommend . . . .' He engaged Mr Brown in a little light banter, feeling Sybil's icy glare in his direction just once. After a minute or so of forced jocularity, Mrs Brown's sudden question splashed in the air like an iceberg calving.

'Where's Paddington?'

Varying degrees of alarm registered on each face in the lobby. Young Judy said, 'He's probably wandered off to the --' Even before she could say the word 'kitchen', blood-curdling screams, along with alarmingly ambiguous thuds and clanks began sounding from that very room. The entire collection of Browns and Fawltys darted towards the commotion.

O'Reilly's short, skinny legs still protruded from under the sink. But now, next to them was a pair of short, stout, golden-brown-furred legs. O'Reilly was screaming and babbling, mostly incoherently, as the rest of his unseen body thrashed and floundered, colliding noisily with the plumbing he had just been repairing.

As one, the two Brown children grabbed a Paddington-leg each, and began heaving, as Mrs Brown called out, 'Paddington, come out from under there at once!'

Mr Fawlty and Mr Brown stared at each other, mouths slightly agape, each registering a moderate, but not overwhelming, degree of astonishment. Coincidentally, each was wordlessly saying much the same thing -- 'You see the kind of things I have to deal with?'

The children succeeded in extracting Paddington, who stood there with water dripping off his snout and cobwebs on his ears. He instantly recognised this as one of situations where Explanations Were Demanded. So as O'Reilly continued to shriek and call upon a wide variety of saints and aspects of Divinity, Paddington began: 'I just popped out here to see if there was a bit of toast or sausage left over, and I saw this gentleman, and thought there must be something dreadfully interesting under there, so I squeezed in beside him, and he was fast asleep. Well, I thought to myself, it must be a lovely place to sleep if he's gone to so much trouble to get under there, so I stretched out next to him. It was just the littlest bit cramped, and not as comfy as you might think, and my head was twisted around and pushed right up into his face. His eyes started to open, so I said, "This doesn't really seem like a good place for a nap", and that was when he started carrying on so . . . .'

The men had extracted O'Reilly, somewhat against his will. With Paddington on the outside, O'Reilly seemingly preferred the inside of the cupboard more than ever. Perceptively, Mrs Brown swept Paddington and the children back out to the lobby. O'Reilly stood there shaking, leaning against Mr Brown.

'Oi've nivver had such a froight in me loife, Mr Fawlty. Oi don't know what was worse, the thought I was seein' t'ings, or the thought that Oi wasn't.'

Sybil had brought in a cup of tea, and O'Reilly took a few grateful sips. 'Lovely tea, Mrs Fawlty, thanks so much. Oi don't suppose you have anything else, just a bit stronger, perhaps? Oi'm ordinairily not a drinkin' man, just a taste of a Saturday night sometime, but considering the terrific fright Oi've 'ad, I wouldn't moind just a . . .just a . . . .' His voice trailed off as Basil looked into the cupboard with consternation.

'There is water flooding under there, O'Reilly. Take care of that first, and then we'll discuss your drinking habits.' Basil smiled to himself, at the picture of O'Reilly suddenly waking up in a dark, dank space, nose to nose with that monstrous face. Hmm. Maybe a bear mascot wasn't that good an idea after all.

'As for the water, Mr Fawlty, Oi'll have to ask you to turn it off below. In me panic, I damaged the local valve wi' the spanner, and Oi'll 'ave to replace it. Now for that, Oi'll 'ave to go back to the shop, as Oi don't 'ave a suitable spare on me pairson. So until Oi come back, you need to turn off the main valve in the cellar. Roight, I'll be back in a flash, Mr Fawlty sir.'

Annoyed, Basil went to the cellar. Bad week for plumbing. First the hot water, now this. He studied the antique maze of plumbing, straining to remember what went to where. The kitchen and downstairs were on their own separate line, and so could be shut off without inconveniencing the guests. This pipe goes off that way, and that pipe comes in this way, so. . . .

Basil looked at two valve handles. The upper one should turn off the downstairs. He gripped the ancient valve handle and turned it slowly. The handle exploded in a cloud of rust, without turning off the water flow.

A pair of snap-jaw pliers were handy; Basil snapped them on the valve stem and twisted. The stem separated cleanly from the body, and a jet of water caught Basil in the right eye.

'Sod,' muttered Basil. 'What now?' He looked around. The main water valve was the only option left. Basil turned the heavy wheel down tight. The broken valve stopped jetting, but all water to the guest rooms was off now as well. Basil looked around at his meagre resources, and considered possibilities. There were few tools, and few options. Some minutes later, the broken valve was hacksawed away, and an ordinary garden hose was clamped onto the pipe; the other end of the hose bore an ordinary garden hose nozzle. It was not a pretty sight. Basil held his breath, and turned on the main water valve, less than halfway, he guessed. The clamp on the hose held. At least the guests would have their baths and loos. Basil pulled the hose nozzle up from the cellar and around the back, bringing it just inside the kitchen door. Not pretty, he thought again, But it'll work until O'Reilly can do a proper job.

Basil retreated to the office: Sybil had gone into town, Elsie was chambermaiding upstairs, and Manuel wasn't due back until lunchtime. He cued up Brahm's 1st Symphony on the phonograph, and poured himself a very modestly-sized gin and bitters. Life was good.

Coincidentally, Sybil, Manuel, O'Reilly, and the Browns all returned at the same time, less than an hour later.

Basil emerged from his sanctuary, waved a cheery Hallo at the Browns, and eyed O'Reilly suspiciously, who stood there empty-handed. 'Well, O'Reilly?'

'Mr Fawlty, sir, it's loike this, ye see. That valve under there is an odd, old size, ye see, seems to be made to old Continental standards, most like, French-like, ye see, and Oi 'aven't got anything like it in stock, and 't'would take at least two weeks to get one like it. Now what Oi'd like to propose, Mr Fawlty, sir, is that you let me re-fit that whole mess of old work under there with good modern British parts and measurements that'll last a loifetime, and be easy to replace if they ever do go on ye, sir.'

'Have you got all the parts for doing that?'

'Indeed, Mr Fawlty, sir, all right out in the van. Just give me the go-ahead, I'll nip of for a new soldering iron and be back in a shake, and 't'won't take 'arf and hour to finish once I start.'

'Why don't you have a soldering iron with you?'

'Truth, Mr Fawlty, I lost me old one about six month ago, I haven't needed one 'til now, and I didn't see lashing out two or three quid for a new one before I needed it.'

'Doesn't sound like you do much plumbing work, O'Reilly.'

'Not to worry, Mr Fawlty, I'm a master of the trade, it was me first love, just there's so many plumbers in the district now I can't stand the competition, so Oi've 'ad to branch out into the other trades as well, ye see.'

Basil eyed him suspiciously, again. 'Right, get busy then, and be quick about it, because there's more work in the basement as well. Same thing, rotted valve gone, came apart in my fingers. Jerry-rigged right now, but if you can get it all taken care of by the end of the day, I'll be sure to remember you for all my future business.'

'May not be before supper-time, Mr Fawlty, but today it will surely be, you 'ave me word. Roight, Oi'll be back in an hour or so, depends on the Plymouth traffic.'

'Plymouth!' Basil sputtered.

'Aye, sir, me cousin has a shop there, and Oi give's 'im all me trade, ye see, sir.'

Basil glared at O'Reilly. Tomorrow, he thought, I'm buying the tools and books so that I can take care of all this myself and not rely on these working class yokels. 'Go now, O'Reilly. You've promised me today, don't forget it.'

O'Reilly smiled obsequiously, nodding and bowing, as he exited.

Basil had just inhaled for a sigh of relief, when Mr Brown, with Paddington close behind, marched down the stairs. Although not angry, he did not seem entirely happy, either.

'I say there, Fawlty.' announced Mr Brown. 'Something amiss with the water. Mrs Brown wanted to pop the children in the bath, wash off the sand and sun oil, and there's barely a trickle in shower, sink, or tubs.'

Basil Fawlty stood stock-still for a moment, staring at Mr Brown, as the implications set in. He bolted for the door with a suddenness that startled both Browns, _pere et ursine. _As Mr Brown would later describe the sight to friends, 'It was like an explosion of walking sticks!'

Basil raced to the back, down to the basement. Sure enough, the garden hose had blown off the end of the pipe, flooding the basement ankle deep, and robbing the upper floors of any water pressure. He fished up the end of the hose, and jammed it back on the end of the pipe. No useful tools were within reach. He slid the hose as far onto the pipe as possible, but it tended to slip right off when released. Basil needed help. 'Manuel!' he called out. 'Manuel!'

'No, Paddington,' said Paddington, popping his face into view from the steps.

'Indeed, young Master Brown. Do you suppose you could find our waiter Manuel, and send him down here? You'll find him in the dining room.' Basil was speaking politely and charmingly, as much as possible around tightly clenched teeth.

'I'll be happy to help, sir,' said Paddington, and ambled unhurriedly out of sight.

Thankfully, short minutes later, Manuel appeared at the basement stairs. After a brief argument in which Manuel expressed a certain reluctance to stand in water above his ankles in his best waitering shoes and trousers, he and Basil had traded places. Paddington had watched the whole transaction with interest, and stood by helpfully as Basil sat in the grass and removed his soaking shoes.

Paddington peered down into the dark cellar. 'You know, sir, your friend might find it more pleasant down there if it wasn't so dreadfully dark. Oh! I see the light switch right there -- I'll turn it on for him. . . .'

Before Basil could scream 'No!', there was a soft click, followed instantly by wildly flickering lights, horrible crackling and sizzling noises, and tormented screaming, which, though both wordless and incoherent, managed to bear the accents of Barcelona.

'Turn it off, NOW!' Basil screamed. 'You -- you --' words boiled up in Basil's mouth, which he heroically spat out unsaid. Paddington was, after all, a guest and a juvenile.

The bear understood, and carefully flipped the switch back off. Basil darted down the steps, and dragged Manuel up onto the grass. Manuel's hair stood on end, even his moustache. His eyes were blinking uncontrollably, unnaturally wide, then shut again. Tendrils of smoke curled up from under his collar. His barely comprehending eyes turned toward Basil Fawlty. 'You save my life! _Muchas gracias, Senor_ Fawlty, thank you so much, you save my life!'

Literally overwhelmed with gratitude, Manuel fell stiffly forward, moustache first, onto the grass.

Basil went back down to the basement, and checked the hose. It was still in place on the pipe. No water leaked. As he looked closely, Basil could see handprints melted right into the plastic of the hose: evidently Manuel's electrified deathgrip had sealed the connection well.

Outside, Basil said, 'Well done, Manuel. Thank you. Do you need a doctor? No? Good, because you need to serve lunch in ten minutes. Be sure to change those wet shoes. But take your time, please.'

Paddington hovered solicitously close by. 'If there's anything else I can do, sir . . . ?'

Basil glared. 'You've done quite enough, thank you.' He stalked off towards the kitchen door, then had second thoughts. He grasped Paddington firmly by the wrist, brought him through the kitchen, out into the lobby, and pushed him toward the stairs. 'I think your fa-- Mr Brown wanted you in to wash up. Move along now . . . sonny.'

Lunch passed successfully -- Manuel's lightly-toasted appearance caused some slight consternation to some of the guests, but Basil discovered that the explanation, 'He's from Barcelona.' satisfied, or at least silenced, any questions. As always, Elsie helped out: clearing tables and taking orders when Manuel's English proved inadequate. The Browns, as well as most of the other guests, took advantage of the excellent weather to walk into town, or to the seaside.

Dinner approached. O'Reilly did not. Making the kitchen operational with a garden hose through the back door was challenging, to say the least, and Basil's already strained nerves were singing an angry anthem when O'Reilly called. From Plymouth. Basil listened in disbelief to O'Reilly's tale of a malfunctioning van, an ailing cousin, and the bottom line which meant that he -- O'Reilly -- would not be back until Sunday. The jovial uproar behind O'Reilly included snatches of song, raucous laughter, and clinking glasses, and suggested that early Sunday was not likely.

Basil winced as the Browns paraded down the stairs. 'Elsie!' he called. 'Make up those tables like last night, and maybe we'll get through this catastrophe in one piece.'

Meanwhile, Paddington stood in the doorway to the dining room, regarding Manuel with a fascinated eye. '_Pardon, Senor Manuel_._ Se habla espanol?'_

Manuel's eyes nearly popped from their sockets. _'Espanol? Si, si!' _And the two began chattering away in a whispered conversation.

'Well of course!' said Mr Brown. 'Didn't realise it before. Paddington came up from Peru originally, and speaks Spanish as his native tongue. I wonder it took so long for him and Manuel to catch on to each other like that.'

Basil and the rest of the Browns watched Paddington trot along after Manuel in the dining room, helping pass out tableware, menus, and such. Twice Paddington was seen to slip into the kitchen and return with a lovely looking glass of water. Basil only hoped the water didn't taste too much of garden hose.

'Well, Fawlty, I suppose we'll head on in and have our own dinner now. I'll have Paddington sit down with us of course, and get him out of the way . . . unless of course you don't mind . . . .'

'Whatever the young gentleman cares to do, Mr Brown,' Basil smiled. Hopefully the novelty of a young bear bussing the tables would distract the guests from any deficiencies from the kitchen, the taste of garden hose in particular.

Basil himself slipped into the kitchen. Sybil was brewing a large pot of coffee, while lining up individual-sized teapots. Elsie had excused herself after arranging the tables, claiming 'that bear', as she said, was giving her sneezing fits, and she refused to work dinner with a runny nose -- Basil agreed, though reluctantly. Vince the cook was sweating profusely just outside the door, rinsing pots and pans with the hose. He tossed one on the floor with a clang and lit up a cigarette.

'Well done, everyone. I think we're all right. O'Reilly should have the plumbing fixed up tomorrow, the bear will be gone, and Elsie will be on duty.'

Only Sybil looked at Basil skeptically. 'I hope you're right about O'Reilly at least. I don't like what I've seen so far, and I don't even know what you're holding back from me.'

Basil deftly changed the subject again. 'Did you see how Paddington was helping out in there? On the ball, I'll give him that. Maybe I should offer him a position.' Basil marked himself up as the winner with that, and stepped back out in to the dining room to chat up the diners.

In the kitchen, Sybil murmured, 'Hiring a bear would probably be one of your cleverer decisions, Basil.'

III

By ten o'clock Sunday morning, the sky was still grey, fog and mist clung about the boats in the harbour, and the houses overlooking the harbour. Fawlty Towers was not exempted.

Inside Fawlty Towers, Basil Fawlty and Mr Brown were chatting over tea in the bar.

'Mr Brown, I'd be very much obligated to you if we could have just one snap of you and Paddington. Standing on the steps, outside. Or maybe in the dining room. Maybe one of each. And lunch will be with us, of course. My treat. As thanks.'

Mr Brown harrumphed softly to himself. 'Ordinarily, Fawlty, I'd refuse out of hand. Don't like people making a fuss over Paddington just because he's a -- little unusual. Don't want him to get to putting on airs.' He sipped thoughtfully. 'But you're a decent chap, Fawlty. I know a good man, good character, when I see it. I understand what you're trying to do here. I like you Fawlty, and wish you well. So two photos you will have. One condition only -- they're just for in the hotel, y'see, no magazines or papers. Little souvenir of our visit, if you will, nothing more.'

'Of course, Mr Brown, certainly. And I will certainly extend you an invitation for Christmas holidays this year -- I think I'll be able to offer you a very friendly discount.'

'I believe we'll pass on lunch, Fawlty, thanks awfully, though. Rotten weather, might as well head back to London. Christmas, you say? Hmm. Let's certainly stay in touch on that. Come on, though, let's get you your snaps.'

Basil ended up with a few photos of Paddington and the Browns -- inside, outside, in the dining room posing with Manuel. Sybil looked askance at the entire proceeding, and reminded herself to be very upset with Basil about the matter.

Photos and goodbyes made, Manuel helped the Browns again with their luggage, conversing enthusiastically with Paddington in Spanish the whole time.

Basil and Manuel stood on the steps under a gloomy sky as the Brown's auto started up. Both were extra-ordinarily cheerful.

'Basil!' Sybil Fawlty's voice rang harshly in the damp air. 'Mr O'Reilly just called. He said as soon as he finds his van he'll be on his way. His van is in Plymouth.'

'Well, yes, it should be, that's where he is.'

'Maybe that's where he was last night, Basil. This morning he's in Bournemouth.'

Basil closed his eyes, inhaled deeply. If O'Reilly isn't here today to finish the job, I'll never hear the end of it.

'Mista Fawlty? _Pardon,_ Mista Fawlty. I think very hard right now, about you and hotel and England. I think this week, maybe I go home to Barcelona, leave England, bad-bad weather all time, you unhappy all time. But I see you great man! You let bear stay in hotel. Very brave man to do that! And bear speak my own Spanish, I have not hear Spanish, almost one year! You know bear must be homesick, like Manuel was! You do your best to make him welcome in England, just like you do me! You are great man, Mista Fawlty, I proud to work for you, I proud to call you _amigo!_ I promise, Mista Fawlty, I never leave you!'

Basil contemplated a future full of Manuel. Thank you Paddington, thank you so much for making me seem so wonderful. He looked down at Manuel, gazing up at him in devotion. He looked at the Brown's car, pulling out onto the road. Paddington stuck his head out, turned, and waved cheerily.

'Silly old bear,' said Basil Fawlty.


End file.
